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| William Faulkner [Alfred Eriss] |
from William Faulkner’s Light in August:
“Yes,”
he thinks. “I should never have let myself get out of the habit of
prayer.” He turns from the window. One wall of the study is lined
with books. He pauses before them, seeking, until he finds the one
which he wants. It is Tennyson. It is dogeared. He has had it ever
since the seminary. He sits beneath the lamp and opens it. It does
not take long. Soon the fine galloping language, the gutless swooning
full of sapless trees and dehydrated lusts begins to swim smooth and
swift and peaceful. It is better than praying without having to
bother to think aloud. It is like listening in a cathedral to a
eunuch chanting in a language which he does not need to not
understand.
Love these posts! Eclectica, thou art Peanutty.
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